A Raven's Cry
by soundbyte09
Summary: A new world with high stakes, a more contemplative Harry and multiple POVs. If James and Lily Potter did not die on that fateful July night, if Sirius Black wasn't sent to Azkaban, if Neville Longbottom was the boy-who-lived, what would change? Book I, covers first year.


**A/N: I don't own J.K. Rowling's characters or her world, etc.**

Gideon Prewett sat amongst the other wizards in the Council of Magical Law and awaited his deserved justice; vengeance for the cruel act those Death Eaters performed on his brother, who had besmirched the Prewett name and dishonoured his brother's memory.

The judge, some Barty Crouch fellow, a man with neat, waspish grey hair, rolled up his boring black Ministry-regulation robes in some attempt to admonish the men — _murderers _— standing, heads all held high, in front of the whole council. His deep-set, skull-like eyes burrowed into them with an imperial hatred. However, something did not sit well with Gideon Prewett, something he did not understand.

"Your acts endangered the secrecy of the Wizarding Community at large and caused great torment to those afflicted by them," the judge barked. _Of course, of course_, thought Prewett, _Animals, the lot of them. _The seven men, some young, some old — _all degenerate _— stood in a circular formation, each one handcuffed to another. Not one of them bowed their heads, not one of them shed a tear. All but one had nasty smiles warping their faces.

The judge continued. "You all acted in the lowest demeanour, like savage _beasts_. You should be fortunate that you did not torture the young man any further or all seven of you would be handed to the Dementors." Crouch paused, his eyes beneath grey, bushy brows flitted to the grim-faced Gideon Prewett, then to the evidence reports placed on his table by the helpful Auror Sirius Black moments earlier. A frown ruined his already dark face, and he shrugged as if he was acting contrary to his own self-interest. Clearing his throat, he spoke again.

"But because of your unfortunate placement under the Imperious Curse by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, your families' sterling reputation within our community, your collective youth, and because the law of the Ministry of Magic does not seek retribution, I hereby sentence you to five years confinement in Azkaban apiece."

Only years of hard-fought battles kept the overpowering anger from showing on Gideon Prewett's face. His brother, his twin, was _dead_; and that's the sentence they received? Some petty justice it was. The men on trial — _Dolohov, Rosier, Rookwood, Macnair, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, Yaxley _— were escorted away, each snickering to themselves as their families swarmed them with beaming smiles. _They _were happy. Good for them.

Horrid blood trickled from his scrunched nose, leaving a trail of red to his top lip. He grabbed a starchy old handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it to his face. His position meant that, when the seven men strode down the aisle in victory, they couldn't even so much as grace him with a momentary glance. They passed without him uttering a single word. He couldn't grasp them yet.

Then the parents and families exited, but unchained so they could catch sight of him. They all looked like him, but with robes as black as the darkest midwinter night and jewels of the most expensive foreign varieties. Some held their heads high as their relatives did, while others at least had the dignity to look at him, even with the shame they carried in their eyes. But along with that shame came a sense of entitlement and superiority.

Uncaged, Prewett leapt forward in the direction of the procession and screamed, "I will hear your screams as you heard my brother's — I will make you cry and howl as I have" — the starchy handkerchief now under his eyes. The Representatives bringing up the rear hurried towards their clients in a tight formation, protecting the families, some of whom had slowed in some sort of daze. A massive Auror, Shacklebolt — Prewett knew him — hastened to block Prewett's row. It wasn't needed.

All these years as an Auror, Gideon Prewett had believed in the righteousness of law and order with all his blood-stained heart. And he blossomed as a result. Now wild thoughts of using the most terrible curses against those who dared to wrong his brother clouded his mind and wracked his skull to the marrow of its bones. He turned to his father, Ignatius, who stood stock-still in incomprehension and muttered, "We've been humiliated." A pause followed, and it made his decision steadfast. "To get the justice we deserve we must go to Albus Dumbledore."

* * *

In the black, exquisitely built and designed 10 Grimmauld Place, Sirius Black was as off-his-rocker drunk as any other ordinary veteran of the war. Sprawled over on a dark indigo sofa, he took another swig from the bottle of firewhiskey resting in his right hand, choking and coughing up putrid black bile onto the floor. _I'm glad they're all out_, Sirius thought, a pleased sigh escaping his dry lips. It was around five o'clock in the morning and inside his mind he spun twisted fantasies of murdering whoever it was who murdered her, _Marlene_, but he knew none of their names. He thought of burning shadows, faceless men who did not exist. He thought of Apparating somewhere, like James'. But he was in no fit state to see anyone, let alone two kids, his best friend's wife and his best friend. _If they saw me now_, he chuckled in a hushed tone. There may have been a time where he could've enjoyed a good drink with a mate, but everyone was moving on, marrying and having children. It was all a bit sudden, but he knew he could've had the same, had they not taken her from him.

Slurping at the bottle of firewhiskey, he heard the opening of a door, but he kept drinking until his brother — _Regulus _— stood before him, his eyes an angry bloodshot-red. To Sirius he was the opposite of a good man, one of You-Know-Who's goons who followed his orders as if he were blind. His aristocratic features served to highlight his lack of personality even more; porcelain skin, pale blue eyes, and an upturned nose. _Thank Merlin he's uglier than me_, Sirius thought. Now his brother was receiving praise for snitching on all of his Dark Wizard friends so he could get out of doing time in Azkaban. All the witches he passed on the way to work looked at the newspapers and said how handsome he was. _Little did they know the even handsomer brother was right behind them_.

"Where in Merlin's beard were you?" Sirius asked.

"None of your concern, brother," Regulus replied in his regular cool register.

He had misjudged how drunk he was. He leapt over the coffee table and grabbed his brother by the neck. He imagined him being the one who killed his sweet Marlene, the one who made her scream and suffer and then played in her blood. _Death Eater scum_, Sirius thought, _Doesn't deserve to be called my brother_. Calming himself, he began drawing his fist away, and then saw the mocking smile his brother had splayed across his arrogant, snooty face. That was enough, and Sirius landed a hard right hook into his cheek. A purple mark was left that would no doubt bruise. His brother kept smiling and said in a hoarse, hurt voice, "The great Auror Sirius Black, lowered to beating his _filthy _Death Eater brother." He continued, mocking him, "_Marlene! Marleeeeeneeeee! Oh, my love, I will burn cities for you! I will find the _scum _who dared to lay a finger on your perfect face!"_ He spat out blood, "When will you learn, Sirius? You're not going to get your _justice_ for your Blood Traitor bitch, so why don't you sit back down and go back to drinking like you always do?"

Regulus — _the bastard_ — started laughing. He punched him in the stomach, hard, and his legs buckled. Sirius fell on top of him. He could feel Regulus' breath against his rough skin as he panted with a sadistic laughter. He punched him on the arms and legs, beating him as he would do to any Death Eater he found on the job as an Auror. It was a painful punishment, to be sure, but one that would not leave lasting damage like broken bones or torn ligaments.

Despite his effort against it, he couldn't bring himself to hit his snot-nosed brother any harder. He couldn't. And he was grinning like a cat at him. He lay there, arms spread in a cross. Sirius imagined him laying there, his eyes lifeless, dark red blood spewing from his bruised neck, caking the carpets with the terrible stench of murder. Regulus kept laughing. "So now you know. I'm not like the rest of them. You can't just _kill _me. Whether you like it or not, I'm your brother. Wouldn't want to be a kinslayer now, would you?"

Sirius Black rose to his feet. He loathed his brother with every fibre of his being, but he knew he could never so much as lay a finger on him without the _beloved_ grandfather Arcturus coming down upon him with the force of many Galleons and disinheritance. If Sirius was being frank, he didn't care about his inheritance. He only cared for her. Regulus got to his feet too, and faced him in a smooth turn. He looked his older brother dead in the eye and uttered, "I'll forget about it this time. Say some rowdy Mudblood in the pub did it, but if you even so much as _touch _me without my say-so, I'll go straight to grandfather. And I'm sure he'd love to find a reason to disown you." He tutted, shook his head and said, "Clean yourself up, dog." He walked out and the door slammed shut behind him.

Sirius lay there on the floor, covering his face, hiding the shame. Grief gripped him between its firm fingers and refused to let go. And then the thick-skinned courage he developed as an Auror made him reach into his pocket and grab the thick, coarse envelope that said _Sirius Black_ on the front.

The paper inside read:

_Mr Sirius Black,_

_You are invited, with the highest esteem, to the post-war gathering of the Order of the Phoenix on the last Saturday of July 1981. It is a celebration, not only for the end of the war, but for all of the lives lost to the menace of the Dark Lord Voldemort and his army._ _As a valued member of the Order during the Great Wizarding War, you are expected to arrive and receive the praise you deserve for fighting with such valour and nobility._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

He had a hold on the letter with shaky hands, feeling like the ten-year-old boy receiving his Hogwarts letter again. _I must go. I must go to the wisest man I have ever known._

* * *

The werewolf, in a man's skin for the moment, thin as a rake with brown floppy hair, scowled at the bookkeepers next to him: the father, Basil, with hair-growing potions in the satchel slung around his shoulder, the mother, Lilian, with a faint moustache growing around her thin, flaky lips, and the daughter, Galena, whose pug-like face reminded him of his childhood dog. They always bickered and squabbled with one another, and the man, Remus, was afraid of grey hairs sprouting atop his head. The daughter took a quick break from the argument to eye him up, and he could feel a sick churning in his stomach when she did. He'd only taken this job to get _away_, and now it seemed like they were doing everything in their weaselly power to push him back _in_.

Galena approached him and beckoned him to the storage room behind the counter where the parents continued to argue. His heart beat faster and faster, hating every second of the interaction, but he followed her regardless. They both entered, and she shut the door with the _click _of the handle and then the jingle of keys as it locked.

Ever quizzical, Remus asked, "Why don't you put something a bit stronger on the door? Like a charm or something, you know, not something that a first year could open." He tried to force a smile onto his panicked face, but in reality it looked more like a creepy grin.

"It doesn't matter," she whispered. "I'm not supposed to tell you, but at the end, right before your pay day, my parents are sacking you."

Remus was incredulous, "_Sacking_ me? That's not humane, they're supposed to give at least a month's notice, it says so in Section Four of the 1859 Amendment to Wizarding Labour La…"

"I don't care," she muttered, licking her lips in an action she must've thought to be alluring. _If anything she looks more like a dog now than she did before_. "Look, Remus, I've wanted you since the moment you stepped into this shop, and I want experience before I go travelling. I know you want me too, I've seen you staring…"

Remus, mortified, yelled, "I have _not_ been staring!"

A disheartened yet determined look entered her ugly face, "Then what was that look you gave me before we came in here?" She fluttered her eyelashes, and Remus felt his head go dizzy.

"It was because _you _were staring at _me_!" He yelled.

Discontent flared in her eyes, "Quiet, or my parents will hear…"

"Good! Mr Buckling! Mrs Buckling! Hello? Can you hear me? Please hear me!" He begged, wanting nothing more than to leave, "I don't care that you're going to sack me, just let me go home! Please!"

"Do you not want me?" Galena asked, a sniffle starting to take place around her flat nose.

"Thank Merlin, you finally get it. No, I don't, I really don't. Let me out. Please."

"No!" She yelled, "You're lying! You don't want to admit that you want your boss' daughter, you're too scared of the consequences. Well, let me let you know right now that your boss' daughter won't disappoint."

It was at that moment that Basil barged through the door with his wand out, his tomato-red face now discoloured into a more beetroot shade. The short, squat man looked like a goblin lusting for blood, and Remus wanted nothing more than to leave. Basil pointed his wand towards him and bellowed, "What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing with my daughter?"

Remus unholstered his wand in as fast a fashion as he could, aiming it at Basil and shouting "_Expelliarmus_!"

The wand, short and fat like its owner, came whizzing out of his hand and into Remus' with a faint_ thwip_. Shaking with rage, the owner of the bookshop came barrelling into him, fists flying. Remus had no time to react and had to do his best to shield his pretty face from each crushing, hard blow. The man was like an ape, swinging each arm at the same time, sweat dripping from his hairy beard.

"_Enough_!" The daughter screamed, red-faced and sobbing, the tears staining her gaudy makeup. Her wand was pointed at her father.

The older man raised his arms up in the air, "Pumpkin, you wouldn't…"

"Try me," she said. "_Stupefy_!"

Basil flew into the bookshelf behind him like a ragdoll, his body collapsing limp beneath it. Books — _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Madcap Magic for Wacky Warlocks, Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now You've Wised Up_ — all flew off it and cascaded onto him, each with landing with a dull _thud_.

Before Remus could even utter a _Thank you_, Galena rushed towards him and smushed her lips against his before pulling away. "You don't have much time, leave now before he sets the Aurors on you."

He smiled a genuine smile, "Thank you, Galena." And with that he hurried out, past the fuming mother and impatient customers, onto the cobbles of Diagon Alley.

He'd decided that working anonymous jobs didn't suit him. He deserved to be with his own kind, not in the bustling streets that constricted him. The _real _him. He had heard whispers of a group of his kind in the Welsh countryside, where they roamed free and did not answer to the wizards who would dare to cage them.

_I need to find them_, he thought,_ and only Albus Dumbledore can help me_.

* * *

All of these men and many more received handwritten invitations to the post-war gathering of the Order of the Phoenix, to be celebrated on the last Saturday of July 1981. The organiser of the event, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, never forgot his friends from the Order despite his high status in society and his odd detachment from it. The reception was to be held at the Burrow, the Weasley House's ancestral home, and the festivities would go on for the whole day. There was no doubt among the heroes in attendance that it would be a momentous event, and a good way to honour those they lost. The fighting was over now, so there was no way the day could be shrouded by the lurching fear of an attack from the forces of the Dark. A relaxed day in the fields of Ottery St Catchpole was what they needed to express their joy at the war's end.

And on the morning of that last Saturday of July 1981 the members of the Order Apparated from their homes — some came from mansions, some from semi-detacheds — all with the aim of honouring their fallen friends. They bore gifts — some large, some small — for both the Supreme Mugwump and for the families of the dead.

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was a man almost every witch or wizard living in Great Britain knew. From the Orkneys to the white cliffs of Dover, there was always some mention of Albus Dumbledore. Brilliant and enigmatic, ever the scholar but still prepared for lighthearted celebration, he knew the true value of innocence that was required to utilise magic. A powerful man in terms of magical prowess and political standing, if a request were to be given on this day of celebration he would do everything in his God-given power to uphold it. The only thing that he required was dedication — a dedication to wage war against the darkness of Lord Voldemort, only he could speak his name without a cold, shivering fear creeping up his spine — as it showed their propensity for goodness and their ability to make the right choice, even if it were to go against their natural instincts.

On the outskirts of the festivities, a small group of brooding men stood circling around a barrel of butterbeer.

"Father, who are those men over there?" A young ginger boy around the age of nine, Charlie Weasley, asked.

His father, Arthur, who wrapped his arm around him in a kind, warm gesture, "Well, son, if my memory serves me right…. The one on the left over there," He pointed and Charlie's pondering eyes followed, "Is Uncle Gideon. I don't know why he hasn't said hello yet."

"Mum said he was sad about Uncle Fabian," answered Charlie.

"That'll be about right. He was always an angry man, liked to lose his temper. Anyhow, I'm sure he'll come over to have a chat later, he's probably just catching up with his mates. Righty, the one in the middle is Sirius Black, now if I'm right he's my something-or-other cousin. Not important. And then the one on the right is Regus… no… Roger? Nope. Wait, wait… Remus! That's right, Remus. One of James Potter's friends, I think, you know James right, Jimmy and Harry's dad?"

"Yeah, James is so cool! He's got a cooler job than you as well."

"Enough of the lip," Arthur admonished, feeling attacked by his son's all-too-accurate barbs.

He pulled his son away, back to his friends, turning around every so often to inspect the men standing around the barrel. None of them spoke to each other, and they all exuded the same aura of sadness and anger around them.

* * *

Double doors opened to Dumbledore's makeshift magical tent, and a majestic, fiery phoenix swooped in front of the forlorn men, pecking the red-haired Gideon Prewett on the cheek, as if pressing him to go in. Prewett saw this as an act of subtle manoeuvring, and so obeyed the request of the bird, knowing it was Dumbledore behind it.

He entered a tent decorated in Spartan fashion, with odd, enchanted contraptions moving through the room, accomplishing outlandish tasks that even an old gentleman such as Dumbledore could have done himself with only a sliver of magic. It was lit only by candles, and Gideon struggled to see.

The old man was sat on an old wooden rocking-chair in front of a desk filled with innocuous paperwork, gifts from the day's celebration and some theoretical papers he seemed to be working on. _I expected nothing less from a man with such a reputation_, Gideon thought, struggling to wrap his head around the garishness of it all. A pipe dangled from Dumbledore's half-open mouth, smoke pluming from the end. His white beard seemed in danger of catching fire, but he was neither alarmed nor concerned, for his face was painted with an expression of pure contentment and bliss.

"Do not fret, young Gideon. My beard can't catch fire. The tobacco I'm smoking is some kind of special, non-combustible brand. I don't know how that's possible, you can see the smoke too, can you not?" His voice sounded young and free of responsibility, odd for a man as senior as him.

"Yes, sir."

"Quite fascinating. But that's magic for you, I suppose. Sometimes things work in ways that even I cannot explain," he stared at the pipe, now resting in his hands, before placing it on the desk with care and saying, "Well, my boy, sit down and tell me what you wish to discuss."

"You've heard of my brother, have you not?" Gideon asked.

"Yes, of course. An unfortunate passing. He was a bright spark among our kind, one which will not be forgotten soon. If you come looking for his gifts, they're in the house itself," Albus Dumbledore looked into his eyes with a piercing gaze. "But I fear that is not why you have entered my…" He paused, surveying the surrounding tent, "_temporary_ office. So, do tell me. As Head of the Order, I wish to know."

The Auror closed his eyes for a moment and began to speak. His voice was quiet, his tone soft, as if he were putting on an elaborate spoken poetry performance. "My brother and I dedicated our lives to stopping the forces of Dark Magic. I believe in your power, the Order's power, even if the DMLE's power, however limited it may be. They've made me the man I am today. I owe my life to many people in these establishments." His voice broke, and small whimpers could be heard through the hand that covered his mouth, despite how much he wished for them to disappear.

Headmaster Dumbledore gave him a nod of sympathy, one that both conveyed his understanding and his need for Prewett to continue spinning his tale. "So when I heard that seven Death Eaters — seven of the worst, most despicable Death Eaters. — had taken my brother, I begged and pleaded to be assigned to the team trying to find him, so I could administer justice in the way the law deemed correct. You know what they said to me?" He paused, his diaphragm moving up to take in air. "They said, 'Prewett, getting an emotional attachment in this business is too dangerous. Protecting Longbottom is more important. You stay with the group guarding the Longbottom Estate, we'll send the more capable Aurors after them.' So what did I do? I listened to them. I listened to those entitled good-for-nothings. I kept my mouth shut and my attention focused on Longbottom." His lips trembled under the heat of the late July sun, and a sweat began to form at his brow.

"But after four weeks of them not having found my brother, my dearest brother, my twin, I came to the Order. I came to _you_. I came to you and said 'Sir, we may not have got along all too well when I went to Hogwarts, but can I, as a loyal member of this Order and as a dutiful Auror, ask for one simple request?' You knew what the request was, in fact, there's no point in me even saying this, you've already read my mind for it. You replied, 'No, Gideon. What this case does not require is a young, brash man acting from a place of vengeance. What we need is _justice_.' Justice, I could get on board with that." He sniffled, taking out a handkerchief from his well-tailored coat pocket, blowing his nose to extend the torment Dumbledore had to experience.

"When they found the Death Eaters with my brother's _dead body_ only _three months later_, I said to myself, 'This is it. This is my chance at justice, true justice. The Headmaster was right!' I saw them all at the trial, laughing and remorseless. I didn't care, I just wanted justice for my brother's murder. I wanted them to punished equally in turn. I saw Barty Crouch tearing into all of them and I wondered if they were really going to put all of them under the Kiss. Even I knew it was unrealistic for them all to be killed for what they did. In fact, I didn't want them to be. I wanted them to be put behind bars _for life_. That was the only justice they deserved. Then that _rat_ of a judge gives them five years because of some stock excuse. Is that justice? Is that fairness? No."

It seemed like he had finished his story, so Albus Dumbledore asked, "Then what have you come here for, other than to tell me of the unfairness of our justice system?"

"I'll tell you what I want old man, I want _my _justice." He paused, dramatic, "I want them there for life. You're the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the ICW. Aren't those titles supposed to mean something? Get them to change their minds. I don't care about you wanting to uphold the law. The law is _wrong_. It's wrong."

"So you wish for me to convince the Wizengamot to reschedule the trial of your brother's brutalisers? If that is what you want then I'll inform you now that you'll receive no peace. The claim of influence or possession via the Imperious cannot be disproven in a Council meeting without sufficient evidence, and the issue with this case is there _is_ no sufficient evidence."

Gideon Prewett stared at him, eyes widened in disbelief, his fists made ivory from him clenching them so hard. He had reached his boiling point. _Bugger it all, I'm done with it_. "Fine, if I won't get justice anywhere, then I'll have to get it myself." He reached for the Auror badge resting in the inside pocket of his coat, displaying it to Dumbledore, hands shaking, before throwing it into the fireplace at the edge of the room. He watched it fade to ash before whispering, "Tell Shacklebolt, Scrimgeour, anyone you need to tell, that I'm done. And I'm done with this Order too."

He turned around to leave, but not before the old man asked, "Are you sure you wish to do this?"

"If no one else is going to do it, then I'll have to do it myself."

He left the room. The only colour he saw was red.

* * *

A young Harry Potter gripped the hem of Sirius' trousers, his blond hair flopping up and down as Sirius waved him around. _I'm glad he's here_, he thought. It was odd. He, no everyone, had expected the young boy to be the spitting image of his father, like how the young James had been. But fate decided something different for Harry Potter, and gave him curly locks of golden hair. The only feature he could tell came from his parents were the green eyes of his mother, which seemed to shine even brighter on him.

James and Lily thought it odd too, but Lily said she would've had the same blond hair but she was instead blessed with the ginger gene. Both her parents were blond and so was her sister, so it made sense that Harry was blond too.

He was a giggly boy, always smiling. _Merlin that's needed around here_, he thought. In fact, all of the kids were, but whenever he saw one he thought also of Marlene…

_"__What would we call our kids?" Marlene asked, her black hair flowing under the September breeze._

_"__You know, I've never really thought of it before." Sirius took a pause, a moment to think, before replying, "Well, since I'm a Black, he'd have to be named after a constellation, something like Corvus or Leo. Did you know in Latin _Leo _means 'lion'?"_

_"__Yes, I did," she replied, chuckling, "But what makes you think it would be a boy?"_

_"__I mean, a man can dream, right? Imagine there being two of you, my life would be chaos!" He started laughing as she came crashing down on top of him giggling…_

_"__You're such a prat, Sirius!"_

"Sirius? Sirius?"

It was James' voice. He snapped out of his daze. "Wha…?"

"Dumbledore said you wanted to see him, and asked me to fetch you for him." His best friend replied, grinning at what he perceived to be Sirius' drunken state.

"I'm not drunk, by the way," Sirius said, trying to clear the air.

"Wow, must be a first."

"Arse."

"Bastard."

"Cheeky," Sirius smiled. He missed the company of his friends, and a sunny summer's day like this reminded him of the good times they had together. "Alright, so if I remember correctly, Dumbledore's office is that way." He pointed in the direction of the office and walked towards it, ignoring any pleasantries or replying in as efficient manner as possible to each. _Marlene comes first, Marlene comes first_, he kept telling himself. And she did. Deep in his heart, he knew he could never be rid of her.

When he reached the office of his former Headmaster, the old man greeted him with a kind, twinkling smile and when Sirius explained his predicament and how all he thought of was Marlene McKinnon and the family they could've brought into the world together, Dumbledore took pause and said, "What you need, Mr Black, is a good deal of time off. Go. Go explore the world, learn new things, see new sights, meet new people. But do not forget where you came from. Do not forget your home, your roots. In the end, the magic of Britain always pulls those born under it back into its grasp. You have the resources and the knowledge to live your life to the full. It is possible for you to do so, only if you believe in it."

"Thank you, sir. Can you arrange the time off?"

"Of course, and it'll be plenty of it. As much as I think you need."

* * *

The last man waiting, Remus Lupin, entered the tent and told the man he believed to be the last beacon of light in the whole of British wizardry about his issue, "As a werewolf I am cursed to live half a life. I will have to move, afraid of my shadow, every single day. I will never be able to fit in, to find myself. I need to leave here, this place. I need to roam with my own kind. I ask for your permission in the event that people become worried or start looking for me. I need you to tell them I'm off doing work for you, or you can tell them the truth if you want. I trust you, Headmaster."

"Do not worry, it shall be done. Your secret shall be kept safe and you are free to live with the other werewolves. I know the clan you speak of, the one in South Wales. Why not a clan here in England?" Dumbledore asked, his half-moon spectacles lowered in anticipation.

"Greyback." Remus replied.

"Understandable," Albus nodded. "Now go, enjoy yourself, unburdened from the woes and worries you carried before. I'm sure you will find happiness one day, and then you may return to us a changed and bettered man.

"A man can hope, can't he?"


End file.
